Motherhood – Page 29 – Letters from Home

They Looked to their Mothers

Our children perform piano pieces in front of judges once or twice a year. I think it makes the piano teachers happy to have some validation for their efforts. I also think that these events push the kids to work harder and achieve a higher level of mastery. I’ve seen my children blossom under pressure and falter under pressure. I experience it with them, whatever the result.

One year at a judging event, I sat in a different place in the audience than I ever had before. Normally the audience faces a profile of the student and if you’re lucky, you can be on the side of the audience where you can watch their fingers fly over the keys. At this school where the judging was taking place, the audience surrounded the piano in a half circle in a choir room. I watched the pianists play through a window created by the raised grand piano lid. Framed by a wooden support and lid, I had a full view of their faces.

I watched many children perform through this new window and I noticed something I hadn’t seen from a profile view. Almost without exception, when a child ended his piece, he looked immediately to his mother.

They looked to their mothers, not the judges, not their peers. I met my two boys’ looks with silent, fervent approval and encouragement to carry them through the long pause while the judges made their notes between pieces. My inaudible support included a pantomime to remind them to breathe. I watched the other parents in their silent motions and expressions do the same.

I’ll always believe that the best honors go to mothers, and it’s not in the usual form of great accolades or certificates. It’s in the form of hastily-crayoned words on a lopsided, handmade heart; it’s being the person the child runs to when in danger, during sickness, or in times of worry; it’s being the person they want to talk to when something goes really well; it’s in their looks of vulnerable hope, framed under the piano lid, hoping to find encouragement. It’s enough for me to see my children look to me in times of trouble or excitement to know how important my job is.

Parenting in the Trenches

Last week we finally celebrated Timothy’s birthday, one month late, with his friends at an arcade. I baked some cupcakes just minutes before his friends arrived. I was thankful for the arcade. It was a redemption from Timothy’s frustration and a compensation for my lack of the fun gene in my DNA.

I had a mouth full of ulcers last week and these cankers were bad enough to put me to bed for about a day. Richard ran to the store for milk. The next day when I was feeling better, I bought milk before checking the refrigerator. When I got home from the store, I discovered that we had a combined total of 11 gallons of milk. Ha!

I received an email from the piano teacher asking me to monitor my child’s piano practice better. I don’t know how I am going to do that.

I gave my gray stocking hat to one of my sons who was sledding with friends. I watched him tuck it into his pocket rather than put it on his head as he walked away from me. Now the hat is missing.

I tried to register Daniel for EFY summer camp only to discover that we had lost and forgotten his passwords to get into the site. I called and waited on hold for an hour, and was scolded by the operator for my attempts to get around my lost password problem. “You shouldn’t have done that. Now it will take more time to fix it.” And later, “Oh, I’ll just register you myself,” she said with a sigh. “Thank you!” I said, genuinely grateful. Exhaustion had set in and I was docile as a lamb.

There was a prescription which took two days to acquire for one of the boys, including a trip to the doctor and 3 trips to the pharmacy. The clerk at the pharmacy was so helpful. I felt like she really understood, and I was so thankful.

We arrived at church separately, as usual, because of meetings, and we couldn’t find one another. Richard saved a place for me and I saved a place for him. We sat apart for a good portion of church before Richard found us.

I was late in renewing the library books again. It’s a good thing I am taking another violin student next month to help fund my forgetfulness. And the books aren’t even that good. They are fact books about Utah.

I took Mark to a book store during a lunch break and the clerk asked me why he wasn’t in school. It seemed odd to me that she was worried about his education. I was buying a stack of books for him! I just smiled and reassured her. In my mind I chanted, “I’m a good parent, I am a good parent, I am a good parent.”

And my definition of a good parent is someone who keeps trying, day after day, through all the challenges…and fun…and adventure.

Our First Teen Party

Our first teen party involving boys and girls took us by surprise one night in early 2015. Daniel asked if he could invite some friends over to play games in an hour. I assumed that Daniel was having another game night with the guys, which happens often enough. Daniel went to parties all the time with boys and girls, but never at our house. I had decided that our house was never going to be a magnet for teens. Among Daniel’s friends, you will find homes with a media room, pool, trampolines, ping pong, and pool tables. We have lots of books and a piano. I thought that ours could be the “bakery house” and I began preparing chocolate chip bar cookies to serve in an hour.

Soon the doorbell rang and in walked a girl with long blonde hair with some pink or purple streaks through it. I was so surprised that I just nodded to her from the sink, speechless until I finally spurted out a little hello as she disappeared down the stairs. Mark and Timothy hurried to me in tandem, eyes wide, and nostrils a little flared. “Who is THAT?” one whispered, clearly amused and looking a little mischievous.

Collecting myself, trying to make it sound like it was no big deal, I said, “That’s just Gamuhmuh (mumbled)… or somebody.” The truth was, I didn’t know this girl that just walked down to our basement with our 15-year-old son. I was unprepared to see girls coming in the house. No way was I ready to go downstairs to introduce myself, but I tried to listen for hints of what was going on. Now and then I heard the girl laugh. Everyone but this girl was a half an hour late to the party. I wondered if anyone else would show up. I was grateful that I had some cookies baking in the oven. This, at least, would be a way that I could naturally enter the conversation as I served cookies later. How could this girl have such an unsettling influence on me? Who was the adult here?

More kids showed up at the door, some familiar, but others strangers to me. My confidence wavered a little as each rang the bell, but I put on a confident face and smiled and waved from the kitchen as their heads disappeared behind the banister as they walked downstairs. When the sounds of male and female laughter continued to drift upstairs, I felt relieved that they were having fun. I began to think that it could be nice having Daniel’s friends over at our house for a change. I prepared the cookies on a plate and invited them to come upstairs.

I tried to remember all the things that make teenagers cringe about their parents. I decided to be the present, but silent type and try not to be one of them. It took me five minutes to fail with that plan in an uncomfortable attempt to joke around with one of the boys. Yes, I reminded myself, I would need to be the present, silent type of parent for sure. As they ate their snacks in the kitchen, I sat in the next room trying to be invisible. We were watching a movie, but all I could focus on was the flirting going on in the kitchen. The memories of my teenage attempts at interaction at game parties came back to me with clarity: I had been just like these kids. My hair had been bigger, but I was the same. And the empathy of the moment caused me some pain and a little amusement. It is hard to be a teenager.

There have been many parties, movie nights, and kids hanging out at our house since then. In the early days, I did bake, but I don’t always do that now. That first night, I learned from Daniel that they loved the baked goods; the girls liked my decorations; the house smelled good. It was a pleasant surprise to see that having a few girls over to the house made Daniel more aware of my efforts in homemaking and entertaining. I basked in the praise and the satisfaction that we can host a fun night for teens at the Ross home.

Louie Stories, 2008

Over several months when Timothy was 5 years old, I told him stories from my own imagination, shared in small installments each night in the dark. Sometimes he would ask me to repeat a story, and this would be a challenge because I didn’t write them down. My stories were about the adventures of a young mouse named Louie. When you are a third child and second son, few things come to you that aren’t hand-me-downs. Louie stories were my original, individualized gift to Timothy each night.

We lay on his pillow together at bedtime and Timothy would say, “Mom, can I have a Louie?” and remind me where we left off in the story the night before. While I spun my stories, Mark nestled in his blankets in the crib at the foot of Timothy’s bed. For those few months, Mark didn’t need me at bedtime and I could give Timothy some one-on-one attention. I avoided cutting my hair at this time because twirling it seemed to be linked to Timothy’s feelings of security at night.

I wrote a synopsis of Louie’s world that year to help me to remember it.

Louie is a young brown mouse living in the middle of a neighborhood in an empty lot. His neighborhood is friendly, with houses all around. Although there are people living around Louie, most of them do not know he is there. He has a few people friends but most things Louie does happen when people aren’t looking. It’s just safer that way. Louie’s best friend is a cat named Jack who lives up the street. Jack is an old orange cat who is too tired to chase mice anymore and often lets Louie ride on his back as Louie looks for adventures around the neighborhood.

In Louie’s world, a Cheerio is a full meal; trash left behind by humans is treasure; friends are those he can trust with the secret whereabouts of his house and family. His mom loves to see that Louie is well fed with interesting meals such as half a grape and a goldfish cracker or a Cheerio with a half an M&M for dessert. Louie’s mom also sees that Louie is tucked in at night and gets his rest.

Louie’s dad goes to the dump each day to forage for the family. Louie often goes along with his dad to the dump to find interesting and useful items to use around the mouse house. They dig into trash bags to find food to eat or lumber for the latest project. Popsicle sticks are an especially helpful find. Transportation to the dump is important, since Louie can’t scurry that far without getting exhausted. It’s a hilly road leading to the dump, and the well-worn roller skate makes for a great ride downhill.

The park is another place that Louie enjoys visiting. He has a possum friend who lives in the park trash can and there is a whole network of tunnels under the park where the park mice have dug nests and dens. Who knows if this is what real mice do? But in our stories, mice like tunneling. Louie visits mice friends named Sam and Rosie in the tunnels and an old, eccentric scientist mouse who keeps a helpful stash of batteries in his den.

Childhood bedtime rituals are as powerful as they are temporary. We both loved the Louie stories, but one night we stopped sharing them. Months went by and when I pondered what to give Timothy for Christmas, I decided to type up the stories and print them out in a book for him. Putting them in writing narrowly reflects the impromptu details and tenderness that accompanied their creation. They are merely echoes of one of the details of mothering, but for the memory of his childhood that that they represent, I am grateful.

Bags for Every Occasion

Bags for every occasion

Let me confess to you my naïveté about women’s handbags of any kind. I didn’t know that there was a world of high fashion bags until I was in my late twenties. Petunia Pickle Bottom bags weren’t invented when I bought my first diaper bag. When I became a mother, I went down to Kmart and bought a mint green diaper bag with pastel animals printed all over it. I had no opinions about diaper bags until I got home from that shopping trip.

Someone looked at my new bag and said, “I’ve always felt that the bag should reflect the taste of the mother, not her baby.”

“Ouch,” I thought, and never felt good about that bag after that.

There was a Louis Vuitton purse in my mom’s closet in 1997 that was a hand-me-down from my Great-aunt Susan. My mom didn’t like the purse and gave it to me. I was looking for a bag that could hold diapers without looking like a diaper bag since my mint green bag was juvenile, apparently. After a few months I realized that this cavernous purse without pockets didn’t suit my needs. It wasn’t attractive to me, so I donated it to charity along with some worn out clothes. Later, I learned that the bag was worth hundreds of dollars. (Facepalm.)

One of the most important bags that I have carried as a mother is the church bag. In the mothers’ room at church I learned from other women that plastic bags, multiple changes of clothes, and blankets were necessary for the newborn. When babies became toddlers and didn’t want to sit still, the church bag carried anything that would entertain.

For a typical week at church when the kids were young I would load my long-handled, fabric church bag with our Baby Bible, a bag of dry cereal, sippy cups, extra pacifiers, diapers, wipes, and toys, toys, toys. We had child-sized etch-a-sketches, magnetic paper dolls, fabric swatches to make dresses on princesses, sewing cards with laces, Bible cards, Book of Mormon games, puzzles, and markers that wouldn’t mark anything but their allotted book.

When Mark was born, Richard sat on the stand each Sunday with the bishop during sacrament meeting. I had 4 children to keep quiet on my own, so I got more inventive. Into the church bag went Great-grandma’s heirloom costume jewelry and porcelain dog. I let the children hold these if they were very good. Many children can hold precious things carefully, and this is an exercise in reverence. I filled plastic Easter eggs with small surprises. I purchased handfuls of hand puppets and finger puppets. I cut out felt books of stories from the Bible and the Book of Mormon.

I wouldn’t carry all of my tricks at once. I would rotate them in and out of the bag week by week. If I took the time to load the bag with plenty of quiet activities, not cars and action figures, the kids were more reverent. I learned that cereals with a lot of sugar were not a good idea because the kids would be grumpy after they ate these. I tried to serve snacks in the hallway before sacrament meeting so we weren’t crinkling wrappers and the kids didn’t learn to expect food when we sat in the chapel. These ideas, typed out in front of me now, seem like basic wisdom, but I they were hard-earned.

I have carried many bags over the years, but the diaper bag and church bag have been the most important. When I hear a young child upset at church I still look in my bag to find something to entertain. Unfortunately, my church bag just has pens and paper in it now. And it still doesn’t reflect my incredibly classy taste. Also, to those young mothers who have a Petunia Pickle Bottom diaper bag, good for you. All of you. A good bag, well-stocked, whether it is pretty or not, can make all the difference.

Books!

Some books we read and what it did for our family

I learned from my mother to make time to read to children. My favorite memories of my mother are when she read to us, and my picture of motherhood wasn’t complete without reading books aloud. I haven’t been good about early bedtimes, perfect nutrition, and many other things, but I have been good about reading aloud.

There are some books on our shelf that I could probably say from memory: The Muppet Babies Book of Shapes; The Pokey Little Puppy; The Cat in the Hat; One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. So few Caldecott and Newberry Award winners were among our favorites from early childhood! The Three Little Pigs, The Little Golden Book of Sounds, The Egg Book, and other simple stories were enough to keep our little people happy. Library trips would bring lavishly illustrated and poetically versed books to our home, but these weren’t the favorites of the very young. It was just Hop on Pop and The Three Little Kittens for us.

Reading calmed my children, gave us time to snuggle, and became part of the bedtime routine. One day in Texas I discovered that I could read to the children and think about other things at the same time. This time of mental escape when the kids were quiet and happy was a blessing. Although my mind sometimes wandered during the early years of Dr. Seuss books, I kept reading because my mother had done the same for me and I loved her for it.

Treasure Island, Johnny Tremain, The Hobbit, Tom Sawyer, and The Lord of the Rings trilogy are some of the books that I introduced to the kids at a young age. I noticed that my children have returned to these books on their own to enjoy them again. It doesn’t matter how old the children are, if it’s a good book, they’ll sit around and listen to me read it.

Some of my instinct to gather my children close around me is helped by good literature. I have grown closer to my children by giving 20 or 30 minutes at a time to read aloud. I’ve traveled through the stories with them and watched their wonder and laughter. As they grow older, I see that reading aloud is a good catalyst for conversation with kids who don’t feel like talking.

I hope each child carries a memory of me reading books aloud. I hope that when they think of me, they see me with a book not too far from reach. My personal reading has helped me in my parenting to be more informed, centered, and entertained. I’ve filled the house with books, ready for discovery and rediscovery. Having a house full of well-read books is one way that this quiet mother says, “I love you.”

When I asked the kids in 2015 which books they loved best from early childhood, this is the list they came up with:

A Bargain for Frances

Another Monster at the End of this Book

Are You My Mother?

Black Beauty

Carry On, Mr. Bowditch

Chrysanthemum

Corduroy

Dinosaur Days

Fire, Fire!

Firetruck

Goodnight Moon

Guess How Much I Love You

Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb

I Can Dress Myself

Jessica

Little Golden Books (any of them)

Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel

Monkeys Jumping on the Bed

Muppet Babies Be Nice

Oh, the Places You’ll Go

Richard Scarry’s Busy Workers

Royal Diaries Series: Queen Elizabeth

Somebody Loves You, Mr. Hatch

Tell Me Again about the Night I Was Born

The Dot

The Hobbit

The Little Red Hen

The Lord of the Rings series

The Pea

The Quiltmaker’s Gift

The Raft

The Ugly Duckling

The Very Quiet Cricket

Tiki Tiki Tembo

The Austin Backyard

The Austin Backyard, 1998-2005

The jingle of the swings’ chains was a natural accompaniment to outdoor play in our Austin yard. Backs arching, toes reaching above the fence, eyes trained to catch glimpses of the field beyond the fence, Paige and Daniel soared. Days in Austin felt heavy with moist air and heat. Clouds, creating a blank white, arching cover on the skies, were a blessing because they shielded us from the sun.

When Paige began school, the poem, “The Swing” by Robert Lewis Stevenson was her first memorization project. She recited it on the swing with natural soaring expressions as her toes reached for the clouds.

There was a bucket swing for babies, with two holes for chubby legs. Baby Timothy’s feet, socks dangling from his toes as he kicked in his swing, are a detail from memory that I can only associate with him.

Parents of the neighbor children joined us to visit while their children played, our conversations sometimes interrupted by requests for an “underdog” where a parent would run beneath the child, lifting the child on the swing high above the head. For those moments when our children were in the swings, they were happy and their needs were simple.

In summer, the three crape myrtle tress along the back fence erupted into vivid pink blossoms; this vibrant color gleaned from such poor, shallow soil and heat was a miracle of Texas ingenuity.

Late afternoons and early evenings were best for backyard play because our west-facing house created full shade at this time of day. The heat wasn’t the only challenge in Texas. There were also fire ants. The swings kept young feet safe from the fire ants lurking in the dirt. These ants, with their mob-like dynamics of swarm-and-sting were the perpetual enemy. Turning on the hose was the fastest, surest way to remove fire ants when they bit and stung little feet and legs. Daniel’s reactions to ant bites were the most severe, and sometimes he would have pussy blisters between his toes. Sometimes the kids put on their long rubber boots to avoid ant bites as they played.

The large cement patio was always littered with sidewalk chalk, balls, and child-propelled vehicles. There was a plastic play house with a half door and windows with shutters. The patio was like a stage, elevated enough that we could see it from the field behind the house and the street, Bratton Lane beyond the field. Coming home from errands on Bratton Lane I could look to the patio and see our children playing outside.

As the children grew, we decided to add a trampoline to the yard. The swing set was dismantled when we moved to Arizona, in hopes that it would be rebuilt someday, but it wasn’t. There wasn’t enough space in our new yard. I called this one of the casualties of our move.

The trampoline remained a part of our yard in Arizona, but it became a casualty of our move to Utah. During the move, we unpacked the swings and placed them on the garage shelf, like a memorial. The hope that they will be used again dims each year. You will also find our trampoline poles in a pile in the backyard, the once happy trappings of childhood play, now just a haphazard monument to those earlier days.

Our yards in Arizona and Utah were beautiful and unique, but playing in Austin on the swings against the pink canvas of blossoming trees was a wonderful beginning.

Aquarium

IMG_20151113_122903 — The jellyfish were my favorites

Mark and I had another Friday of wonder together. I love aquariums, so I can’t believe it took us this long to see the aquarium down the street. I found myself on the floor in my dress, trying to spy new creatures and I also inadvertently dipped my coat sleeve in the water in an attempt to touch a ray as it swam past me. How childish to forget my coat for such an opportunity. How fun.

Mark and I have been working on having adventures this year as part of our study of Utah. I never went to 4th grade, so I missed out on Utah studies. I’ve felt this loss of a proper Utah education every time someone mentions a county in Utah and I have no idea where it is. Well, we are fixing this, one field trip at a time. The past two weeks we have focused on things closer to home. However, we have traveled to some interesting places this year. Mark has a map that we populate with photos in the shapes of the counties he has visited in 4th grade. We have more pictures to put on the map, but you get the idea.

To the Children of my Relief Society sisters over the years

Child,

Do you know that your parents’ concern

Is ever about you?

On the sickbed, unable to stand, a mother signals,

“Find that poem about my child and share it with Angela.”

The poem is printed on her child’s funeral program.

It sits near her mother’s bedside.

Another sits on her father’s desk, accessible with the right hand.

Child,

Your mother’s heart breaks for you.

Even gestures from close friends are too painful for her to bear.

You don’t see it, nor can you:

Her house is closed,

A mirror to your lonely place.

Child,

You left and she didn’t know she could go on.

You were her reason for living for so long.

She is finding strength on her own now, and she is radiant.

Moving forward, she keeps pace with you, hundreds of miles away.

And oh, time goes so slowly!

Child,

With love your mother allows you to come back home.

You are wounded, not healing, and raw.

You don’t tell her how you really feel;

Somehow all the words you can say are hurtful.

She knows her love is not enough to heal you;

And prays that you will find your true Savior.

Child,

We gave your mother a quilt today

To help her to know that we remember you, too.

She places it on her lap

And tells us of a tree planted in your honor:

The soldier who didn’t come home.

She will remember you long after the tree is gone,

The infant face, the boyish tricks, and songs from a teen–

Woven together in every contour of her heart.

Child,

You left today on an errand for the Lord,

I came to your mother

And she was crying, but she will be fine.

You are doing the thing that will make her happiest.

I will watch over her until you come home again

And can hug her yourself.

Child,

You are beautiful in your wedding clothes.

Your mother, tired from preparations, looks radiant.

She will put her feet up tonight, cry a few tears, and smile.

And as ever,

You will be the instrument drawing her thoughts to the future.

For mothers of faith, the future always includes you, Child.

No matter what.

Wow!

Constable landscape

I saw my first Monet painting with Richard and Mark. We visited the British Landscapes exhibit at the Utah Museum of Fine Art. (All images are from their website.) At one point during the exhibit, Mark asked if he should stop saying, “Wow!” all of the time. “No,” I replied. “This is why I brought you to the museum with me.”